


In want of Answers

by Zeckarin



Series: And they were roomates... (but there were two beds) [44]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (of course), Adam Young Still Has Powers (Good Omens), Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), BAMF Adam Young (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Bickering, Domestic Fluff, Febuwhump, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Happy Ending, I've put Bentley and Bookshop in advance to spoil future chapters a little, Other Additional Tags and Characters to be added, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Sentient Bookshop (Good Omens), febuwhumpday1, prompt 1: Mind control, prompt 2: I can't take it anymore, prompt 3: Imprisonment, prompt 4: Impaling, prompt 5: Take me instead, prompt 6: Insomnia, prompt 7:Poisoning, prompt 8: Hey hey this is no time to sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeckarin/pseuds/Zeckarin
Summary: Beelzebub has ordered all of Hell's demons to stay away from the traitor Crowley and the angel Aziraphale.Dagon isn't satisfied.Why would Beelzebub suddenly decide to protect these two?They must have obtained some kind of leverage over the Lord of the Flies...And Dagon is a very protective demon when it comes to her master's safety.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: And they were roomates... (but there were two beds) [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523585
Comments: 162
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, no need to have read the other stories for this one. Just know that Beelzebub was, about one year after Armageddon, in a bad position in Hell, and Aziraphale helped them sneak into Eden to steal an apple, helping them to keep their throne.  
> Oh, and the boys are keeping a spare corporation of Gabriel in the bookshop's attics, in case one of them got discorporated someday.  
> None of them wants to have to use it, though.

Dagon looked at the lesser demon facing her. He was fidgeting in his seat, fear and uncertainty written all over his face. Good. It was always nice to see her underlings properly wary when dealing with her.

“Are you certain of yourself?” she asked. “Last demon who came up with the ‘perfect’ potion was a failure. Do I need to remind you where it got them?”

Sweat trickled down the demon’s temple. Dagon restrained a pleased smile. She still had it.

“I assure you, your Lordship, I tested it thoroughly. Of course we do not have prisoners of the angelic stock, but since we were from the same origin to begin with, I am fairly certain that it will work on the Principality.”

She looked down at the little vial on her desk. “Tested it on a lot of demons?”

He nodded hurriedly. “Five, each of them of a different rank. I couldn’t try it on a Duke, since none of them are currently in disgrace and available for punishment, but every rank under that was susceptible to it. You need to link part of your essence to the potion, and have your target drink it. Once in their corporation, it mingles with their true form and then you have direct access to their mind. You can bend them to your will easily.”

“Did they fight? Did they make it difficult?”

The demon shook his head, a hint of pride in the gesture. “They are conscious, and they can think on their own, but they are incapable of fighting the control of the one possessing them.”

The Lord of the Files smiled thinly. This looked good. Only one more thing, just one, to cross from the list she’d given her underling when handing him the task.

“And there would be no way for an outside observer to sense the possession? Even someone that knew the target well?”

Again, the demon straightened smugly. “Not at all. The occult energy is intact, as would be Grace if it was to be tried on an angel. Unlike traditional possession, there is not a trace of the person controlling the body. Your essence would not be present. It all works through a link, the connection made by the potion.”

“But that link is present. It has to be noticeable,” pushed Dagon, steepling her fingers on the desk to peer at him intently.

The demon gulped, nervousness creeping back in his eyes. “Ah, yes. But it is very well hidden, and one would have to check on every dimension one by one to be able to see it. There are dozens of different dimensions, and we usually only use three of them. Who would think to check on the others? We have almost no power in them. They’ve never been used before, except by… well, Her.”

Dagon nodded and made a shooing motion that had the poor bugger scrambling away as fast as he could without appearing disrespectful. She ignored his repeated bowing as he retreated to the door, leaving her alone.

This potion had worked on every demon with a rank below Duke. And it may even work on one of them… She took the vial between thumb and forefinger, making it twirl in the dim light of her office. Dukes had been Seraphs in the old times, and Aziraphale was a Principality. Way below*.

*Aziraphale was, in fact, a Cherub. Principality was only a title, but the misconception was deeply rooted and very few people knew about it, even in Heaven, where Principalities were kind of an embarrassment for head office.

She snapped her fingers, the little bottle disappearing into the ether somewhere only she could reach. She had to be prudent. Beelzebub had expressly forbidden anyone to approach that angel.

And that was the crux of the matter. The Lord of the Flies never cared about anyone. They never protected anyone before, and certainly not one of these white winged wankers. What was so special about the Principality? They had told Dagon it was only part of a deal. The angel had helped them enter Eden and steal an apple, they’d said, and it was the only reason they were now declaring him off limits. They were indebted to him.

Except it was a lie. Dagon wasn’t only good at files, she was an expert in lies. And she was also an expert in Beelzebub.

Again, she pondered her decision. She had an awful lot to lose if the Prince of Hell discovered her plan. It was outright treason, she knew it. Worse, Beelzebub would consider it _betrayal_.

But she had to know. If Aziraphale held some secret leverage over the Lord of the Flies, then she had to act. No one would threaten Beelzebub and get away with it.

No one.

* * *

  
  


Crowley’s phone rang and he snatched it out of his pocket, looked around with intent, and placed himself in the middle of the vegetable’s aisle before picking up, just at the perfect place to block shopping carts coming from four different directions.

“Yeah? Yes, I _know_ it’s you, Aziraphale, there’s no need to tell me it’s you _every_ _time_. No, it’s not _polite_ , it’s _weird_ , that’s what it is. Oh yes? Oh reeeaally? I’ll hang up on you. Yes, I will! See if I don’t—” 

“Sir!” snapped the woman that had been trying to get past him for the last thirty seconds. The demon turned to her slowly.

“Hang on, angel,” he murmured, squinting at the human. “WHAT?”

“You are blocking the way, sir!”

“Yeah, I know.” With a nod, he got back to his phone call.

“What do you want, Aziraphale? Forgot to put something on the list?”

The woman frowned, clearly angry now. “Sir! You are obstructing the aisle! Could you move to the side, please?”

The ‘please’ was pushed through gritted teeth. Crowley smiled sweetly. “I certainly _could_.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, before the human turned her cart away with a glare.

“You, sir, are a _jerk_!”

“Thank you!” answered Crowley suavely, sending a small demonic nudge at the shopping cart so one of its wheels would jam and render its course erratic for the next hour.

He frowned as he realised some angry sounds were coming from his cellphone.

“Of course I’m listening to you, angel. How can you think otherwise? So, what do you want?”

He looked down at his plastic shopping basket. “Yup, got the apples… ‘ _what kind’_? The _red_ kind... What do you mean, ‘not the right ones’? Since when is there a _wrong_ sort of apple?” 

The demon rolled his eyes at his friend’s answer. “Okay I asked for that one, I guess. What _kind_ of apples do you need? _Golden_? I’m not in Greece! You don’t need gold apples for a tart! Oh. Oh, all right. Yeah, I see them now. Yellow, right? Kay, I’ll get a dozen. See you later-- Oh, Aziraphale? Wait! There’s something wrong on your list, you’ve put _salted_ butter. Salted? For a dessert? You’re sure?”

He listened, rolled his eyes, then shrugged casually. “Don’t complain if it’s inedible.”

Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he sauntered to the yellow apples, snapping his fingers as he went. It would now be impossible to find the start of _every_ sellotape in the store.

The demon started to whistle. He always loved grocery shopping.

He put back the red apples with a slightly nostalgic grin, and chose a dozen golden delicious, making sure to arrange both piles of fruits so they would collapse next time someone tried to pick up one.

* * *

  
  


Dagon knocked on the bookshop’s door, grimacing slightly at the ethereal tingle when her hand hit the wooden panel. She eyed the building up and down. Interesting. She didn’t know the angel’s dwelling had a mind of its own. That meant no one ever reported on it. 

Well, it wasn’t very surprising, after all. Everyone in Hell now knew that Crowley had been consorting with the Principality for a long time. He’d probably lied on every report.

As the Lord of the Files (a title that, unlike rankings, was something one had to earn) she felt anger bubbling again near the surface, thinking of every time that serpent had deliberately falsified official reports. As a demon, though, a small part of her couldn’t help but be impressed.

The door opened, and she nodded. “Principality.”

The angel frowned slightly, but didn’t appear aggressive (good) or afraid (shame). “Lord Dagon? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dagon was good at reading others, and made a face as she realised there wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in that question. 

“I have been sent by Lord Beelzebub. They wanted to offer you this, as proof of goodwill between Hell and-- well, and you two.”

The angel’s eyes widened as she handed him the bottle. “Oh! This is… this is Crowley’s favourite whiskey! I thought they didn’t make it anymore!”

“Yes, we know it. He couldn’t stop speaking about it two hundred years ago, telling us it was the best thing humans ever created. It wasn’t easy to find. This is the last bottle. I would have kept one otherwise, we’ve only got piss Down There, and I always wondered if that thing was as good as that stupid serpent said. Enjoy it.”

She nodded one last time and turned on her heels. Behind her, Aziraphale looked crestfallen for a second, his eyes going from the bottle to her retreating back.

“Oh! Lord Dagon, please do not go so soon! You went through the trouble of delivering it, and it would be dreadfully impolite not to offer you some. I am positive Crowley will understand if we open it without him*.”

*He would not, and Aziraphale knew it. 

She turned back reluctantly. “Are you sure? I am a demon, I would understand perfectly if you didn’t want me to enter your home.”

“Nonsense. Come on in, I refuse to let you go without a taste of this nectar.”

With a curt nod, Dagon entered the shop. Everything was going according to plan. She hadn’t spoken often to the angel (once in Hell, when he had been a prisoner, and once in Heaven, when she had been one) but the short occurrences had been enough for her to get a grasp of his personality. She’d known he would offer her a drink if she let out she’d wanted to taste it. And he wasn’t suspicious in the slightest. Why would he be? He and Beelzebub had reached an agreement. The Archdemon was a lot of things, but everyone knew that once given, they never broke their word.

Aziraphale gestured courteously for her to take a seat “Oh, no, not on the couch, please. The armchairs are much more comfortable,” and she watched him as he fussed with crystal tumblers, finally uncorking the bottle and handing her a drink*. She smiled coldly** and clinked glasses with him, noticing with interest that he waited for her to take a gulp before following. Not that gullible after all.

*A small one. Crowley did love the beverage very much, and Aziraphale would not offer one drop more than politeness dictated.

**She _was_ a demon. To smile warmly could only raise a red flag for an angel used to socialising with one.

The potion took effect instantly, as promised. She sensed the connection taking effect at the same time the angel did, and felt herself drawn to the corporation facing her, taking control over it in less than a second, as naturally as if it were her own.

_Got you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know the chapter count will change, right?  
> Hope you'll like it! I am having SO MUCH FUN writing it^^


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagon is possessing Aziraphale.  
> Crowley is heading home.  
> Both of them have no idea what they're getting into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: "I can't take this anymore". From the perspective of a bird^^
> 
> It's sometimes difficult to write Dagon and Beelzebub in the same story, because the first is the Lord of the Files, and the second the Lord of the Flies... This is one of the reasons I use the names "Prince of Hell" and "Archdemon" as much as possible for Beelzebub^^. 
> 
> That and the fact that "Archemon" is such a COOL word. :D
> 
> I'm still ahead, everyone! Chapter three is written already (I know, I'm as surprised as you are!)  
> WILL IT LAST? You'll know it tomorrow!^^

Aziraphale had been on his guard, but not overly much. Dagon was Beelzebub’s underling, after all, and Beelzebub _owed_ him. More importantly: The Lord of the Flies promised that Hell would leave them alone. According to Crowley, a promise from the Archdemon was kind of a big deal.

So the attack had been a surprise, which was to Dagon’s advantage. Every demon she’d tried the potion on had been caught and brought under her control in a split second. She didn’t expect anything else from an old, weak Principality that had refused to fight in Armageddon.

An awful lot of people tend to make the assumption that conscientious objectors are soft, feeble individuals that don’t know a thing about fighting.

Said people tend to forget that, like food, there are two ways* of disliking violence: knowing in your bones that this wasn’t something you wanted to try, or getting sick of it forever after having too much of it (like Crowley with white chocolate).

*The third way, or “you can’t say you don’t like it before trying it” is most of the time another version of the first. Aziraphale never had needed to try broccoli to know it was _evil_.

Aziraphale belonged to both categories. He was a warrior, had been created to fight, and never had felt the slightest drive towards violence. This didn’t mean he wasn’t a worthy opponent. Actually, most martial art masters would have used a great amount of caution, had they been in Dagon’s place.

Firstly, they wouldn’t have used that particular brand of whiskey to trap the angel.

Aziraphale had been right: the beverage _had_ totally disappeared two hundred years ago. Dagon, knowing it would be the perfect way to execute her plan, had simply miracled an empty bottle and filled it with the best whiskey currently available on Earth.

The combinations of these two factors: Aziraphale’s warrior training and the slightly different brand of whiskey, was the reason Dagon’s plan didn’t work out _entirely_.

As soon as the liquor hit his taste buds, Aziraphale knew something was awfully wrong. This was _not_ the right whiskey.

His first impulse was to jump back and put some distance between him and his enemy, but the attack (poison? Sleeping potion?) was made on his corporation, and to retreat to the other side of the room wouldn’t be a great help.

The angel decided to jump out his corporation before he lost control of it, and to take shelter first into the bookshop’s walls, who were so infused with his Grace after all these years that he could travel through them for a while without risk of losing his way, then to Gabriel’s spare corporation in the attics.

It was a good plan. Too bad it had no way of working. The potion was meant to reach both corporation and ethereal body, and Aziraphale soon realised he couldn’t move at all. He had lost all control over his body. His _true_ body, he realised. And his mind was affected too, his thoughts difficult to process, like they were stuck in honey.

He could feel Dagon’s presence everywhere, trying to reach out to eat him entirely.

Gathering the last morsels of himself he could still control, Aziraphale hid in his own mind.

* * *

Crowley decided to take a little detour by St James, just to make sure that the asshole swan that always tried to scare the newborn ducklings knew he was still being watched.

Crowley had named the bird “Gabe” the first time they’d watched him terrorise the baby birds. The swan had a righteous bearing _and_ was a bully, so the name was well earned, had declared the demon. Aziraphale had _pretended_ to be offended on the Archangel’s behalf, but Crowley knew better.

Hatching would start in less than a month* and that sucker would not approach even _one_ fluffy baby this year.

*Molly-the-Duck was always super early with her brood. Aziraphale was sometimes so worried about the weather he used a miracle to keep her part of the lake a little warmer.

Yelling death threats at the white wanker had the double benefit of ensuring Gabe would be kept on his (webbed) toes and scandalising families on their Sunday walk. Crowley headed back to the Bentley, grinning proudly as, behind him, a six year old shouted one of his insults on a loop until the swan’s pride couldn’t take it anymore and both he and the child’s parents retreated in shame in opposite directions.

Time to get back to the bookshop, decided the demon. Maybe he should stop for some takeaway.

* * *

This wasn’t normal. Dagon knew the angel was under her control. His reflexes were hers, so was his ability to move and speak.

She had full control over his body, memory and corporation, but Aziraphale himself was not exactly here.

She needed the angel to guide her through his memories and analyse them rapidly. Angels didn’t know how to forget, and thousands of years were a LOT. Of course she could do it on her own (she wasn’t called Lord of the Files for no reason) but she would rather choose the easier way.

Dagon reached out, in search of the angel’s consciousness, without success. He was near, that was for sure, but had apparently found a way to hide himself in the nanosecond it had taken her to take him in hand.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She immediately focussed, raising all of her defenses. Aziraphale had no way of hurting her, that was a fact, but he was much more clever that she had given him credit, and she wouldn’t underestimate him twice.

As soon as she would be able to pinpoint his spirit, he would be hers, entirely.

There was only one place he could be hiding, in her opinion: memories. Lines and lines of them, neatly stacked by order of appearance, as with every demon and angel. She would have to search there anyway, so it was like killing two birds with a stone.

The thrill of the hunt had her shiver all over as she headed through the angel’s ethereal body.

In the bookshop, Dagon got to her feet and headed out, before returning to her office through the ground. She didn’t need to be present to pursue her work. She could roam the Principality’s mind from afar, and manipulate his corporation like a puppet master.

Sitting at her desk, she focused on the Principality. Even from another realm, she could control him like a real possession. Impressive, really. She needed to promote the demon who created that potion.

In the bookshop, Dagon-as-Aziraphale looked around, hummed contentedly, put the Principality’s glass on the coffee table and got up, snapping his fingers to erase all trace of a demonic presence (except Crowley’s) from the bookshop.

Then she made him smile in a shining, good-natured way, and took the bottle and glasses to empty them in the little sink in the backroom. The bottle vanished with another snap, and the glasses took their place in the cupboard with their friends.

The phone rang, making the demon-as-an-angel blink and reach out to the old bakelite phone.

“It’s me,” said Crowley’s voice before Dagon could decide on what to say. “Indian or Greek? For dinner?”

“Greek, I think,” she answered cautiously.

“Kay. See you in ten,” declared the Serpent before hanging up.

Dagon-as-Aziraphale looked at the receiver, smiled, put it back on its cradle and sat at the angel’s desk, opening a book.

Now she only needed to access a few memories of how the angel acted with Crowley, in order to delude him long enough to complete her task. And then, she would be able to focus on her _real_ goal: reliving Beelzebub’s last visit, and their quest in the Garden of Eden. She wanted to know what had been said, and (eventually) signed.

She needed to understand how much of a threat Aziraphale and Crowley truly were to her Prince.

Instructing the Principality’s corporation to turn pages at its usual rhythm, she accessed the memories.

That’s when Dagon, Lord of the Files and Beelzebub’s most trusted lieutenant, truly understood how _fucked_ she really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is "imprisonment", and it's kind of a free pass, ha ha ha^^  
> I didn't even need to FIND a place to put it, the word was in the first line I'd written for chapter 3.  
> Yes, most of the time I add the prompt after writing, because I am such a BIRDBRAIN I forget about it, ha ha ha!
> 
> Chapter 4 will be very tricky.  
> I mean: "Impaling"?  
> I won't lie: not my favourite prompt. But I'll find a way (a not-too-gross-way).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagon is searching through Aziraphale's memories, hunting the angel's conscience as well as juicy memories.  
> Crowley is coming back home with groceries, looking forward to a long nap on his couch, a slice of tarte tatin and maybe some wine later in the evening.  
> Again, both of their expectations are about to be disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3, prompt 3!  
> I'm still in the race^^  
> Today's prompt: Imprisonment.  
> Still NO idea how I'll write "Impaling" in tomorrow's chapter.  
> I'll come with something.

He was a prisoner in his own mind.

No good news. No good news at all. Aziraphale rounded a pile of memories, soft and discreet as a ghost, and stopped for a second to touch one of them.

_-I gave it away!_

_-You what?_

With a slide of intangible fingers, the memory blurred, then turned into something else. No need for Dagon to learn about the sword. Or about the fact that Hell’s agent on Earth hadn’t even tried to fight a mortal enemy on his first day at work.

He brushed two other memories in the pile, one of a mild blessing in East Asia two thousands years ago, another of a bowl of lentils offered by a generous woman near a campfire in the fifteenth century.

It made him sick to think that Dagon had access to all his history, to every act, thought and emotion he’d ever experienced. But there was no time for sorrow or anger. He had work to do. There were certain actions the Lord of the Files shall never be made aware of.

Fortunately, he had nothing else to do at the moment, and knew exactly where he needed to go. He had altered dozens of compromising pieces of information already.

Dagon may have been Hell’s best bureaucrat, but he was a _librarian*_. 

*At heart. Not for real. Lending books to strangers all day long? This was the angel’s idea of Hell.

The Lord of the Files would be very lucky to actually find an important memory to begin with in such a _peculiar_ place.

Had the angel possessed a body at the moment, his eyes would have appeared ice blue and his face set in stone.

There was a lot of his past he needed to hide in order to protect Crowley, and to ensure Adam’s safety.

He was at _war_ , and didn’t intend to lose.

* * *

This was a nightmare. Dagon looked around, dread and despair invading her. Even _Hell_ wouldn’t be like this.

She felt tears gather at the corner of her eyes.

It was like her fist days as Beelzebub’s right hand, back at the beginning, a few years after the Fall. When she’d proven herself worthy, and had been promoted to Lord of the Files.

There had been so much work. But after a few decades, she’d finally achieved it: perfectly classified files, a librarian's dream.

And now _this_.

Again, she let her eyes roam over what should have been neat rows of memories, organized from oldest to newest, like _anybody’s_ mind.

It was a _mess_. A clutter of memories, piled haphazardly without rhyme or reason. No way to distinguish the newest from the oldest.

 _Millions_ of them.

Bless that _bastard_ of a Principality! Bless him and Crowley until the _End of Times_!

* * *

Crowley entered the bookshop with his usual swagger, announcing himself loudly.

“Angel! Got your apples!”

Sitting at his desk, Aziraphale hummed, eyes on his book.

Oh. It was one of _those_ days, the demon realised with a pout.

“Not in the mood for pastry, then? Should I put the grocery away?”

He wouldn’t usually bother Aziraphale in the middle of a book (he was a demon, but even he wouldn’t be _that_ evil), but he _really_ liked tarte tatin, and had been quite excited (but hiding it, of course) when the angel had declared he wanted to give it a try.

Again, Aziraphale answered with a grunt.

It was classic Aziraphale. Better leave him alone. Except… well, tarte tatin was _very_ good.

“Angel? Want me to start on it?” he asked with a wide grin, almost certain his friend would jump to his feet and clutch the bag of groceries to his chest after hearing this*.

*Crowley was not, to put it nicely, a very good cook.

“Would you? Much obliged, my dear,” murmured the angel, still focused on his book.

The demon blinked, then slowly raised a hand to take off his glasses, all his attention focusing on his friend. “Aziraphale, are you okay?”

At last, the angel looked up. “Hm? Oh, yes, certainly, Crowley. I only need to finish this chapter. Shake of a lamb’s tail.”

The demon tilted his head as Aziraphale got back to his reading, then shrugged and aimed for the stairs. Dessert would have to wait. Obviously.

Well, he was going to put the groceries away, then go back downstairs and brood on the couch for a few hours until the angel realised he’d dreadfully abandoned his demon in a time of need and apologised with alcohol.

And a _freaking tarte tatin_.

* * *

Aziraphale aimed at a particular memory with an inward, glacial smile.

_-I thought you’d said we’d be inconspicuous here. Blend in among the crowds._

_-Well. That was the idea._

_-This isn’t one of Shakespeare's gloomy ones, is it?_

Oh yes, that one certainly needed some changes. Aziraphale focused on the beginning of the memory, him eating grapes, Crowley walking behind him to take place at his left.

With a flicker of Grace, the vision blurred, changing only slightly. Now, the angel in the memory tensed a little and turned on the spot as the demon sauntered behind him.

_Perfect._

It had been a while since he’d started, and he’d changed hundreds of recollections of his encounters with Crowley. This wasn’t so hard. He had so many memories of his years on Earth, and hadn’t been able to meet with his counterpart as often as they would have wished. There had been thousands of discussions, evidently, but he knew where to find them.

He also knew where Dagon would look next. She was, after all, chasing him, and still seemed to think he was _only_ hiding.

Humming inwardly, Aziraphale turned into another ‘alley’, heading towards a specific spot only he (and Crowley, of course, who knew his friend’s mind like the back of his hand) could make out from the others.

Had the stakes been any lower, this little adventure would have been quite entertaining.

* * *

Dagon was seething. _Hours_ , hours spent checking on random memories, and she still had yet to find something useful. She was going as fast as she could, barely touching them on her way, hoping for--Wait. Crowley was in this one. She stopped and watched hungrily as the serpent circled Aziraphale, the angel turning his head to watch him.

_-Come to smirk at the poor bugger, are you?_

_-Smirk? Me?_

_-Well your lot put him on there._

_-I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly._

There was nothing of use here. Every time she was lucky enough to stumble upon an interaction between the two, it seemed that nothing important ever happened! Weren’t they supposed to exchange information? Where was the point of discussing so many mundane things?

She played the memory faster, groaning in frustration. When the two finally decided to move away from the cross and aim towards the town, she slowed things down, attentive. Maybe this time, the two traitors were about to let out something about their Arrangement (she’d heard the word once, in a late 16th century memory, and was eager to know what it meant).

“Come on,” she murmured to herself, “say something. Tell me what that angel offered you that could be worth betraying Hell.”

It had to be something huge. Something powerful. She _needed_ to know. Maybe this was the reason Beelzebub protected them. She followed the shadows of past angel and demon through the streets of the Old City.

This was _it_ , she was sure of it. If the angel had given Crowley something holy in order to obtain his favour, then it had to be here! It had to be _now_ , on that precise day, when both Heaven and Hell’s attention were otherwise occupied. No one would be looking at them, it was the opportunity of a-

Dagon’s eyes widened, then she mentally pinched the bridge of her nose as she observed her prey enter a tavern.

Oh, _perfect_ . They were about to drink. _Again_.

She’d thought she hated Crowley before, since he’d spoiled Armageddon for everyone, but she knew now how wrong she had been. _Now_ she understood hate.

“I am so going to kill you once I’m done, Crowley,” she mumbled, letting go of the memory to try another.

She just couldn’t watch _another_ hours-long drunken conversation between those two.

Even she had a breaking point.

* * *

Crowley waited exactly three hours, getting more and more restless as the time passed.

Something wasn’t quite right. He knew the difference between _deeply absorbed angel_ and _angel ignoring me on purpose_ , and that was the second one right there.

Aziraphale wasn’t even really _reading_ , he realized as his friend turned a page on one of his most beloved passages without a second glance. Favourites were savoured, the angel letting every word sink in, rereading some sentences two or three times in a row and getting more emotional each time. Sometimes to the point of closing the book and preparing himself a mug of tea that he would slowly drink, staring into space.

Page 127 of this particular book had _never_ been neglected that way before.

From his spot on the couch where he pretended to scroll on his phone, Crowley squinted his eyes, regretting his habit of taking off his sunglasses when he was home. As discreetly as possible, he looked at his friend.

Aziraphale didn’t look angry, but something was clearly on his mind. And he didn’t want to talk about it, which wasn’t very surprising. That stupid angel always had a problem with asking for help.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Hey, how about lunch? That Greek is still waiting for us. I took pastitsio,” he added in his best tempting voice.

Eating would help Aziraphale unwind, and then they would be able to get to the crux of the matter.

“Maybe later,” answered the angel, looking up for a second with a distracted smile before getting back to his book.

Crowley froze, his entire body suddenly still as a statue.

Refusing pastitsio? This wasn’t some trivial little problem, then, like Great British Bake-off being rescheduled*. It was important. Had the angel been forced to _sell a book_ while Crowley was out?

*Though Crowley knew better than calling this particular instance _trivial_ out loud. He wanted to live, thank you very much.

Slowly, the demon rose in a fluid motion reminiscent of his reptilian nature.

“Aziraphale, what happened?” he demanded.

His tone finally got the angel’s attention. His friend closed his book, then folded his hands neatly on his lap.

“Nothing of importance, dear boy.”

“You’re lying. I can smell it from here,” snapped Crowley, losing patience.

“This does not concern you, Crowley! Let it go!” answered Aziraphale in a heated voice.

Crowley could work with an argument. He had no idea if the angel’s reluctance to talk meant that he was hiding something embarrassing or trying to protect a stupid human that had upset him (by buying a book, probably), but both ideas were absolutely delightful in their own way and the demon didn’t intend to let go until he got to the bottom of it.

Embarrassed angel would be a lark, and he would be able to _tease_ him, which would lead to another fight, some heavy bout of pouting, and probably a meal at the Ritz when they would both decide that being angry at each other wasn’t funny anymore.

Upset angel would mean unleashing all the powers at his disposal to avenge his friend (and rescue the book, if there indeed had been a sale taking place), which was equally appealing.

With a grin, he shoved the tip of his hands in his pockets, walking around Aziraphale like a bird of prey.

“Come oooon,” he cajoled, “you know you want to tell me. You’ll feel so much better once you get it off your chest.”

Aziraphale’s next move would be a flutter of eyelashes and a ‘Promise that you will not make fun of me, you serpent!’ to which Crowley would answer ‘Cross my heart’ like the lying liar he was.

They knew the dance. It was one of their favourites.

But Aziraphale missed his step. He just stood there, turning his head to follow Crowley’s moves, and crossed his arms over his chest with a pout.

“You will not tempt me, you foul fiend!”

The tone was spot on. The moves, even. This was Stubborn Aziraphale at his peak. This was something he could absolutely say, but not something Crowley expected in this instance.

Aziraphale wasn’t always predictable, it was one of his greatest traits. The demon could have bought the unusual behavior, could have found it odd but not really concerning.

The _turning of the head_ , however, was like a slap to the face.

Aziraphale _never_ watched his back when Crowley circled him. Hadn’t done it in over two millennia. Even in the middle of a fight, he would never _dare_ look at Crowley when the demon stepped behind him. That would be worse than to stab him with a blessed blade.

It was the greatest show of trust between immortals, and Crowley had fucking _earned_ the angel’s trust.

The Grace was right. The corporation too. The movements, words, everything that carried the mark of Aziraphale was present.

But _this,_ realised Crowley, was _not_ his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are any of you wondering if the "BAMF Crowley" tag be there tomorrow?
> 
> OF COURSE IT WILL!
> 
> Prepare for some angry demon, my friends^^.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Bentley's POV!
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I usually post a few minutes after midnight, but I had to rewrite this chapter THREE TIMES before finally getting it slightly right.  
> Next one won't be this difficult^^

Crowley knew Aziraphale wasn’t himself. Something _bad_ had happened to him, his mind had clearly been altered*.

*And not in a fun, three-bottles-of wine-altered kind of way.

Heaven? Had they used something on the angel, some sort of artifact that would erase the part of him that didn’t _fit in_? Was there a way to reset an angel to factory settings?

There was for humans, after all. Brainwashing had been invented a long while ago (and had earned Crowley another underserved commendation).

Whatever had been done to his friend, it was painfully clear that Crowley was meant to stay oblivious of it. Aziraphale was trying to act like everything was perfectly normal, but now that the demon _really_ looked, it was impossible to ignore the difference.

The eyes were the best clue. You couldn’t fake emotions based on six thousand years of history. Aziraphale’s eyes had lost their usual warmth. Whoever had played with his mind had turned off his feelings. For Crowley, at least.

 _That’s why he’d been reading_ , realised the demon, his superfluous heart clenching in dread. _He’d known that pretending to read would excuse some odd behaviour. And he didn’t have to look at me_.

The angel was still waiting, the only change in his huffy expression the slight squinting of his eyes. Crowley realised he was taking too long to answer.

He needed to say something, _anything_! Pretend to be annoyed, yell a little, and get out in a huff*, slam the door and go somewhere close to think and devise a strategy, try to understand what had happened, and how he could undo whatever had been done.

*All things he did on _at least_ a monthly basis. Aziraphale would probably buy it. Maybe. Possibly.

Yes, that was the smart thing to do. He knew it. Way smarter than to confront the angel in his own _bookshop_.

Of course, Crowley didn’t listen to the rational voice in his head. Dread, worry, and sheer panic were all trying to take the lead at the same time in his brain, and the demonic equivalent of adrenalin was running through his occult body, pushing him as always to _ask questions_.

“What the _fuck_ is going on, Aziraphale? What happened to you? Is it Heaven? What did they _do_?”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened, and he pinched his lips in distaste. “ _Nothing_ happened. You are being ridiculous, I am _fine_ , Crowley. You are just being overdramatic again.”

This was such an obvious attempt to antagonise him that Crowley would have laughed had the situation been any different. Did Aziraphale really think that he would be able to offend him enough to send him sulk somewhere else _now_?

“Drop the act. You're not yourself, and I know it, so why don’t you stop pretending and tell me whose arse I need to kick to turn you back to normal?”

This time, the angel’s expression shifted, a sickening smile spreading over his face. “Since you don’t seem intent of leaving on your own, I guess I will have to get rid of you the painful way,” he murmured, with a delighted inflection of his voice on the word ‘ _painful_ ’ that Crowley had only ever heard applied to the word ‘ _crepes_ ’ so far*.

*And, on occasions, especially after several decades without seeing each other, to Crowley’s name itself.

It happened so fast the only thing preventing Crowley from instant discorporation was his snake reflexes. Without even thinking about it, he was at the other side of the room, claws and fangs growing hurriedly, as he watched Aziraphale hit the shelf that had been right before his head a second ago.

Books tumbled to the floor, unnoticed, and if _that_ wasn’t a sign that someone had messed with his angel’s mind, then Crowley didn’t know what was.

He avoided two other attacks, ducking behind the couch, then avoiding the till that had been hurled at him, before Aziraphale’s hand grabbed the iron poker near the fireplace.

 _OH, SHITE!_ Screamed Crowley internally, eyes darting around in search of some escape way. The Principality was a threat _without_ a weapon already, but now the odds of discorporation were climbing from ‘ _very likely_ ’ to ‘ _ineffably certain_ ’. Holy Fire was no joke, especially if it went through you, and with the way Aziraphale held the thing, he didn't as much intend to _cut_ than to _impale_.

Except no fire seemed to be forthcoming. The poker stayed plain and cold in the angel’s hand, and Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice something was wrong. Like he’d not only forgotten how to inflame the weapons he wielded, but he didn’t even remember he _possessed_ the faculty.

 _They didn’t just erase his feelings_ , realised Crowley. _He’s lost some of his memories, too_. It should have been an awful thought, except at the moment it was a very welcome one. If Aziraphale had forgotten about this, then maybe he’d forgotten about _more_.

Crowley wasn’t against some dirty fighting, especially if it was to save his skin. And he needed his skin in order to save his _friend_. If beating Aziraphale to a pulp was the first step, then so be it.

With a hiss, he dashed forward, feinted to the right at the last second, avoiding the poker, and swiped towards the angel’s left side.

Aziraphale took a rapid step away, just at the right angle. His right leg gave in a little, as _bloody expected_ , and Crowley took advantage of the split-second to attack again, his claws sinking deep into his friend’s right thigh, just on his old wound.

With a cry Crowley would try to forget later, the angel went down, clutching his leg. Crowley didn’t wait, grabbed the poker that had fallen on the floor and hit him on the head with all his might.

Aziraphale went limp.

For a long minute, Crowley only stood there, panting, poker raised, waiting for his friend to move. Finally, certain that the angel wasn’t faking, he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees with a heartfelt “Fuck!”

With a trembling hand, he touched Aziraphale’s temple, checking on his body. The head injury would heal just fine (his angel had a thick skull in more than one way) but the leg injury didn’t look good at all. He’d known it of course. That’s why he’d chosen to hit there, right over the old scar to Aziraphale’s true body. Still, he hadn’t infused the blow with demonic energy. It would heal, given enough time. It would hurt like Heaven, but there would be no permanent damage.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley then reached out to his friend’s mind. Time to check on the _real_ issue.

He was met with a barrier, immovable and unbreakable.

“The _fuck_?” Murmured the demon, trying to push against it. The angelic shield didn’t bulge one iota. No way in, even with Aziraphale unconscious. Whoever had messed with the angel’s spirit had been very thorough.

It had to be someone or something very powerful, to take Aziraphale out in his ground, in his own bloody _bookshop_.

Bookshop… Crowley looked around with a slight frown. No old tome tumbling on his head, no moving of the floor, no _anger_ directed at him for hurting the Principality. The Bookshop had always been very protective of its owner, and Crowley should have been feeling like in the middle of a storm (conjugated with an earthquake) right at the moment.

He reached out worriedly, almost expecting to find the walls empty and the familiar presence gone. Did something happen to the shop too? But no, the humming of energy was there, as solid and reassuring as ever under a whirlwind of emotions, the more obvious being _concern_.

Bookshop was obviously not mad. Not at Crowley, at least. There was anger there, but not the seething rage and despair the demon had feared.

He closed his eyes in relief. The building was connected to Aziraphale, had taken life and became sentient because of him, infusing in his Grace for centuries. Had the angel’s spirit been irremediably maimed, had part of him been destroyed, then the shop would have felt it and wouldn’t be simply _worried_. It would have been desolated, like for Armageddon.

Crowley shook the memory away. Not the moment to dwell on the past. Talking to the Bookshop never was as easy as with his Bentley, but he knew the building understood him.

“Listen, I need you to keep an eye on him while I’m getting some help. I don’t think he will be very happy with me when he wakes up, and I don’t want him to destroy the Bentley’s boot, you understand?”

The lights flickered off and on again.

“All right. Don’t judge me, okay, but I need to restrain him until we find a way to heal him back to normal. Now, if I were to draw a binding circle on the floor, would you erase it as soon as I turned my back or would you keep him prisoner until my return?”

The rug in front of the fireplace slowly slid to the side. Aziraphale’s third desk drawer opened brusquely. Crowley smiled tightly, and reached out for a stick of chalk.

“Thanks, mate. Knew I could count on you. We’ll bring him back, don’t you worry.”

* * *

Crowley ignored Bentley’s questioning nudge as he launched her into traffic, knuckles white on the wheel.

“Fuck.”

There really was nothing else to say. He was too terrified to yell or rant. Bentley nudged at him again, a little frantic this time.

“Something _bad_ happened, girl. But I can’t—put my finger on it!”

He could have believed in some sort of switch, a magic wave disturbing the timeline, exchanging an Aziraphale from the past with his*. But the angel wouldn’t have acted like this. Instead, he’d been obviously trying to deceive Crowley, and making a stellar job of it.

*He was well placed to know this was a possibility.

He thought back about the last few hours. He’d found the angel’s behaviour odd, but hadn’t been alarmed before the _circling_. Now, he picked up every little move, word, expression, everything that had rang slightly false.

It _looked_ like a possession. Except you couldn’t _possess_ an angel. Angels didn’t have tangible bodies, that’s why they needed corporations. To put their true self into it and use it to travel through the mortal plane. Aziraphale’s body was still here, his Grace still the same. But the angel himself had _changed_. Like someone had replaced a huge chunk of his personality with something entirely different.

True bodies were susceptible to very few things. Hellfire, Holy Water, Grace, spells, and some very potent blessed or cursed artefacts.

Part of the angel had been disconnected, and something was manipulating him. So, two different spells. Probably.

The most important right now was to know what had happened to the disconnected part. Was it locked on somewhere inside his own mind? Or had it been extracted and put in an object outside of his ethereal body?

Crowley didn’t even want to think of the third option.

If part of Aziraphale was trapped under a seal, Adam would be able to help. They would save him, Crowley was sure of it. He knew the angel’s mind like the back of his hand, and Adam was more than powerful enough to break the angel’s defences and help him get in.

But if it was somewhere else… 

“What if they destroyed it?” he thought out loud, hating himself. “What if they took part of him away and _destroyed_ it, girl?”

* * *

Bentley was starting to feel pretty frustrated. Father didn’t make a lot of sense usually, but today was worse than ever. She’d gathered that the angel was in some sort of trouble, and it concerned her to no end. She roared angrily, and blared her horn, just in case.

Father seemed to _finally_ understand her turmoil and decided to explain the situation.

“Someone attacked the angel. They put a spell on him or something, and he’s not himself anymore. I think they took a part of him, or—or trapped it somewhere inside his own mind. I don’t know, I can’t _find_ him, I don’t know _where_ he is!”

Bentley reached out to the familiar, warm presence of her angelic friend. He was still in the bookshop, and seemed whole to her. His mind was fully his, and nothing had been cut out from his Grace. She tried to convey that to Father, but the demon didn’t listen, too busy making a phone-call while driving at neck-break speed single-handedly.

With a mechanic sigh, she avoided a mail-man crossing the street. Really, sometimes she had the feeling _she_ was the grown up here.

“Hello, Deirdre, _so_ sorry to bother you, could you _please_ put Adam on the phone? No, of course not, he didn’t do anything, just, ah, need his help. For a gift. For Aziraphale! Yes, need his help to offer a gift, that’s it!”

Bentley was going so fast the streets seemed like a blur as they passed them. Had the angel been here, he would probably be grabbing the dashboard hard enough to leave an imprint of his hands on it. Father blessed under his breath as he waited for his godson to pick up the line. Bentley could sense his panic.

“Get a grip. Get a _fucking_ grip!” he hissed, hands tightening on the wheel.

“Uncle Crowley? Mum told me you needed advice for a gift?” Adam seemed sceptical. Adam was a very smart boy, thought Bentley, not for the first time.

“I don’t need a bloody gift! Well, I will probably need a huge one later, but that’s not--Aziraphale’s been attacked, I need your help!”

Bentley could almost see the Antichrist’s eyes widening in alarm. “Is he _hurt_? Where are you, I’m coming!”

“NO! No, don’t move, Adam! Teleporting will use powers, _keep_ _them_! I’m on my way already. Be here in half an hour. I’ll drive you back to the bookshop. You need to find some excuse for your parents.”

“Uncle Crowley, what happened?”

“I have no idea, but nothing good, believe me.”

“Is uncle Aziraphale all right?”

“I don’t know, kid.”

Crowley hung up, slamming his foot on the accelerator aggressively. Bentley complied, deciding not to take it personally this time, since they were on a very important rescue mission.

* * *

In Tadfield, Adam put the receiver back to its cradle, wondering how on Earth he would be able to convince his parents to let him go to London on a school night without using his powers.

At his feet, Dog wagged his tail, his eyes full of unbridled trust in his Master’s abilities. Adam nodded seriously. If there was something he was good at, it was _convincing_.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started to write this with Crowley acting like he hadn't seen a thing, heading out to go get Adam while Dagon/Aziraphale thinks everything is under control...  
> But halfway through, my nagging feeling of CROWLEY WOULDN'T ACT LIKE THAT, HE WOULD FREAK OUT! HE WOULDN'T BE COOL-HEADED ENOUGH TO PRETEND! made me delete it all. I have no regret^^
> 
> I wanted them to fight anyway. In my universe, Aziraphale is better at fighting and would have the upper hand in most physical confrontations, they both know it. But Crowley is a sneaky bastard when he needs to, and Dagon didn't stand a chance against him.  
> Crowley needed to win this one, and he knew he had to use every advantage he had. Don't be mad at him for attacking Aziraphale's weak point. It had to be done^^


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Adam are heading back to London.  
> Bentley is having a personnal crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm NOT happy with this chapter, but it's almost midnight and I WANT to post once a day until the 28. (Stubborn? Me? naaaah!!^^)
> 
> So I'm posting a short one today, and I'll finish this story tomorrow.  
> Hope this chapter isn't too bad. Didn't have time to reread it seriously.

“I’ll bring him back tomorrow night, promise. He’ll only miss a day at school.”

Arthur Young, tobacco pipe in hand, nodded his understanding. Deirdre waved away Crowley’s apparent concern about her son’s studies.

“Don’t you worry about that; his teacher will understand. Just focus on having your husband up and about. Adam will help, won’t you, Adam?”

“Of course. I’ll make him lots of tea,” promised the Antichrist with all the seriousness required for a sacred oath.

“I didn’t intend to take Adam,” lied Crowley. “Just wanted to buy a present in his stead, pick up the ‘get well soon card’ he wrote and bring it back to Aziraphale. It would have cheered him up already, I still can do that—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” cut Arthur. His cooking program was about to start, and goodbyes shouldn’t take more than the quarter of an hour, in his opinion. “If Adam’s presence will help Aziraphale get better, then he needs to go to him.”

“Yes, uncle Crowley, why would you want a lousy card when you can take me instead?” asked the Antichrist.

Arthur looked at his son with a frown. “Adam, I’m counting on you to take this seriously. Your uncle will need  _ rest _ if you want him to get better.”

“I helped take care of him last year!” protested Adam, conveniently forgetting to add that  _ he  _ had been responsible for Aziraphale needing care in the first place. Crowley cleared his throat and shot him a pointed look.

“Okay, in the car you get, Adam. Thanks again, Arthur, Deirdre. I’ll call you when we get home.”

“Do pass our greetings to poor Aziraphale,” Deirdre shot out as the demon rounded the Bentley. “And call if you need an extra pair of hands!”

“Will do,” assured Crowley with a little wave before starting the engine.

Adam’s parents watched the car rolling away, Deirdre frowning worriedly.

“I really hope Aziraphale’s leg isn’t hurting him too much. He isn’t getting any younger,  _ why _ did he have to climb up that stool?”

Her husband lit his pipe, taking a thoughtful puff.

“He’s a bookseller, Deirdre. Stools are part of the job. And he’s not  _ that _ old. What worries me is Adam going there. Hope he won’t make things worse.”

“Arthur! Aziraphale  _ loves  _ Adam, you know it. They are both always so happy to have him, I am sure his presence will help greatly. It did help last time, when the poor man was so sick. Adam is a responsible boy, he can be very serious when it’s important. And he brings  _ so _ much life with him everywhere he goes.”

“Life, yeah, that’s for sure. But he doesn’t bring lots of  _ quiet _ .”

“You’ll miss him before two hours,” predicted Deirdre.

Arthur Young knew better than to contradict his wife, especially when she was upset (and right).

He would miss the boy soon, certainly, but for now he was about to enjoy his favourite show without barks or shouts (or worse: ominous silence) as a background.

* * *

Adam patted Dog’s head absent-mindedly, looking out the window at the familiar streets of his home-town.

“Your parents are good persons,” declared Crowley, eyes on the road. His godson turned to him with a pout. He had no intention of doing  _ small talk _ .

“I know they are. Tell me what happened, uncle Crowley. How is he? He didn’t really break his leg, right?”

“Nnnnnnh—not exactly. I mean, his leg is hurt, but that’s really not our first concern right now. Someone played with his mind and his memories, and I can’t even get in to find what has been done to him.”

“Get in?”

“In his head, kid. I have to get there to see what can be done.”

Adam sighed. Getting into people’s heads was  _ bad _ , and he was absolutely against it. On another hand, if someone else had messed with his uncle Aziraphale’s spirit, Crowley certainly was the best person to assess the damages and try to fix them.

Aziraphale would agree with it.

“You think I can help you get in?”

“I  _ know _ you can. The angel’s shield isn’t strong enough to stop you.”

Adam fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to be  _ gentle _ . I’m still working on that.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m sure you’ll be all right. Don’t worry, okay?”

Adam nodded, trying not to worry.

He always had been good at pretending, but found it very difficult at the moment.

* * *

Bentley didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

Father seemed to think that the angel was in need of help, but all she could sense was her fair friend’s mind asleep and whole, so after the first half hour, she stopped listening to Father’s rambling*, only purring encouragingly when the inflexion of his voice suggested a contribution was in order.

*In Bentley’s defence, Father  _ was _ prone to exaggeration and tended to complain  _ a lot _ .

When Adam had joined them, the car felt awfully happy. She loved Adam, remembered the first time they’d met. He had been a tiny baby, so warm and fragile, and Father giving him away had been one of the worst moments of Bentley’s life. She’d always felt close to Adam. He understood her. And he was always ready to play.

Except today, apparently. Twice, she had opened the glove compartment, expecting him to close it with a grin, but he hadn’t participated, hadn’t even looked at the opened lid, and after a few minutes she’d closed it silently, feeling left out and abandoned.

Then she’d tried to brood. Brooding was always very effective with Father (the angel had trained him well). After twenty whole minutes, she’d finally admitted that no one was paying attention to her  _ at all _ .

It made her sad. Maybe she was becoming a boring car? Father always told her she was the best, greatest car in the world. Maybe he’d changed his mind? She  _ had _ swerved to avoid splashing that young lady on a bicycle the other day. That hadn’t been very demonic of her.

She parked in front of the bookshop, and reached out for her old friend as was her habit. A turmoil of emotions greeted her. Anger, concern, dread, violently whirling in the old building’s walls.

She hadn’t seen him that way since Armageddon. Anxiously, she searched for Aziraphale. Was the angel in danger? Had she missed something this important?

But Aziraphale was still asleep, and he seemed well. Bentley pushed further, checking more closely. This was the moment she understood that  _ maybe _ , Father hadn’t been exaggerating this time. Had she had lungs, she would have gasped.

The angel’s corporation was in  _ awful _ condition. How could she have missed it? Urgently, she looked and looked again. The angel was here, he was fine. Just like she had sensed him a little while ago.

But he was not taking as much place as usual, she realised. He was small. No, not small, faint. Like his natural hue had washed out a little. And he wasn’t in the right place. Horrified, she understood what it was. She’d seen it already, in Belgium*, ten years ago.

*Father had been in need of some good chocolate to cheer up his friend after a particularly awful visit from Gabriel.

On the side of a street in Brussels, she’d seen a car, hood opened, engine removed and put to the ground, where everyone (even  _ children _ !) could see. She still had nightmares about it.

As Father stepped away with Adam, she felt her shock dissipate, replaced by slow, burning wrath.

Someone had cut the angel from his body. Except that instead of being on the ground, it was still  _ in _ , but not at the right place. Like a motor cut from all its connections and put on the back-seat.

This was  _ atrocious _ . Whoever committed such a ghastly act would suffer. She wanted them to  _ pay _ , and soon!

Watching Father and Adam enter the Bookshop, door opening before they even reached out to it, she thought with wicked glee that she wouldn’t have to wait for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is "insomnia" and it will be a long one.  
> Dramatic rescue! Vengeance! FLUFF!   
> The Comfort is on its way^^


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backups are here, and they are NOT happy!  
> Meanwhile, in Hell, Beelzebub starts to wonder why they havent seen Dagon in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very satisfying chapter to write.  
> And next one will be even better.  
> Oh, didn't I mention? There will be another chapter.  
> I know, I have a problem, ha ha!!
> 
> Today's prompt was "Insomnia" and tomorrow's is "POISONING"  
> No idea how to use it, but I'll find something^^  
> I am the worst prompt user ever, ha ha ha!!

Crowley stomped towards the backroom as fast as he could without appearing too anxious. Wouldn’t do to show Adam how much he was freaking out on the inside.

His first thought as he took in the sight of the carefully drawn circle of chalk and the angel curled up inside* was one of relief. Then, dread replaced it swiftly. Aziraphale hadn’t moved one millimetre. What if he’d hit his head too hard? Shouldn’t he have woken up by now?

*With a pillow under his head and a throw blanket covering him. Crowley was a demon, not a monster.

Unaware of his uncle’s personal crisis, Adam stepped in, stopping just outside the circle, careful not to touch it. The boy took a look at Aziraphale, frowned, and turned back to Crowley.

“I thought you said it couldn’t _be_ a possession.”

The demon snatched his glasses off with a heavy sigh. “It can’t. Angels can’t be possessed. Can we focus on helping him, and save interesting questions for later?”

The Antichrist glared back, unimpressed, and gestured at the angel’s body behind him. “He’s being _possessed_ ,” he explained in the calm, patient voice of a child annoyed to always have to point out the obvious.

“He’s _not_ !” Protested Crowley, gesturing wildly. “Look at him! There would be two people here, do you _see_ two people?”

“I’m not saying it’s like when he was in that woman’s body, but there’s someone connected to him, and controlling him, that’s _obvious_!”

Adam stopped yelling at his uncle’s clear shock. Maybe the sunglasses were more than a fashion choice after all, realised the boy.

“Wait. You don’t see it?”

Crowley tilted his head and squinted his eyes, looking hard at his friend’s corporation.

“There’s nothing, Adam.”

The boy rolled his eyes. _Adults_.

“Not in _this_ dimension, uncle Crowley!”

“Oi, I checked others dimensions, I’m not stupid!”

The boy crossed his arms. “Did you check _all_ of them?”

This, realised the demon, looked an awful lot like a trap. Before answering that _of course he’d checked them all, he wasn’t stupid_ , he decided to do just that.

Most dimensions weren’t of any use, magic almost impossible to use there, but Adam seemed so sure of himself Crowley knew he had to check. He had the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t like it at all.

He was right.

“Unholy _shit_!” he roared at the sight of the devilish link of dark Grace connected to his friend.

Without a second thought, he unfolded his wings, letting his occult essence burst to the surface along with the blind rage, his corporation changing rapidly into something definitely _not_ human.

Adam gasped, and stepped in front of him. “What are you doing? Don’t attack him!”

“Break the barrier, Adam,” hissed the demon. “I need to get in _now_.”

The boy sighed in relief. For a second, he had thought his uncle had lost his mind. “Okay. Just, give me a second.”

He crouched near the angel, and reached out to touch his head.

“Sorry, uncle Z,” he whispered with a pang of guilt, before carefully testing the edges to the mental shield.

It was a strong one. Whoever had built it didn’t want any interlopers. But he could break it. It would take some time, but Adam was confident he would succeed. With great caution, he aimed for one of the weakest points.

“What the Heaven do you think you’re doing?” Snapped Crowley, his voice so rough it sounded like a growl. “ _Destroy it!_ ”

“I don’t want to hurt him. Just give me a minute.”

“We don’t _have_ a minute! There’s someone in there! They’re out cold for the moment because they’re linked to the corporation, but once they’ll wake up they will _see_ us and realise we trapped them. Do you even know what that means? They can do whatever they want! They could gain access to his _core_ , Adam!”

The boy’s eyes widened. For a second, time seemed to freeze, then the air rippled under a burst of power so intense it sent off every car alarm in a two block radius*. Adam’s eyes glowed an ominous red, and the barrier around Aziraphale’s spirit crumbled to dust.

*Outside, Bentley honked encouragingly. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body (or any bone, really) but she sure hoped whoever had hurt their angel was about to be _punished_.

Crowley didn’t waste a second. He knew his angel’s mind well enough, and aimed directly to the centre of it, searching frantically for any sign of damage.

Aziraphale’s core was still there, protected under layer after layer of heavy Grace, untouched.

The demon took a deep, shaky breath, and turned fully yellow eyes to his godson. “Okay. Good. He’s—he’s fine. Now I’ll stay there and watch after him until he wakes up. Whoever is possessing him will wake up at the same time, and I hope they’ll chose to leave when they’ll realise I’m he—”

The sensation was faint, like a light touch to his elbow (if a demon’s true form had anything resembling elbows).

_Aziraphale?_

The familiar Grace grazed him again, soft and reassuring.

_Hello, dear boy._

“What’s happening, uncle Crowley?”

Crowley blinked, and looked up, eyes unfocussed. “He’s here, I can sense him. He recognised me.”

Adam beamed, the red light in his eyes dimmed a little. “That’s good, right?”

“Ngk,” answered Crowley, trying to fight back the overwhelming _relief_ . No stealing of his friend’s mind, no destruction, no brainwash. Just a little, simple possession. The angel was here, and he was _fine_.

At least, he would be once they would have kicked out his squatter. But Crowley was in position to help now, and good luck to the interloping wanker if they even _thought_ of damaging anything on their way out.

“Yeah, it’s good. He should be unconscious, since I— Since he has been knocked out. But he’s perfectly aware. That’s impressive. Don’t even know how he is doing it.”

“He doesn’t like to sleep,” reminded Adam with a casual shrug. “Even when he tries, he has trouble with it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Getting clobbered and having insomnia are two completely—you know what, never mind. You can wake the corporation up, kid.”

Adam, hand still touching the angel’s hair, used a healing miracle.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. The Antichrist smiled.

The shift in the angel’s features was instant, the demonic link snapping in hurry, and the shadow of the terrified demon behind it trying to sink to the ground, only to be brutally stopped as Adam waved his left hand.

“ **I don’t think so,”** said the boy calmly. **“You’re staying here, Lord Dagon.”**

* * *

Beelzebub sighed in annoyance as their secretary dropped another stack of paper in front of them.

“What izz it this time?”

The demon cleared her throat nervously. “Reports from the sixth circle, my Lord. It says it’s urgent.”

“I don’t read reports. Bring them to Dagon, they’ll fill me in,” snapped the Prince of Hell, waving their hand to dismiss their underling.

The demon didn’t move, and anxiously licked her lips. “Lord Dagon locked herself up in her office and asked not to be disturbed.”

Beelzebub tilted their head, the boredom in their demeanour turning into sharp interest. “And you thought you should bother _me_ instead?”

Too late, the lesser demon understood her error*. Beelzebub was getting up and walking to her.

*Not that they could have realised it at any other time. It was always too late in Hell.

Dealing with their latest secretary and designing a new one didn’t take that long, and Beelzebub was too annoyed to get back to their throne. Why had Dagon secluded herself without notice? It wasn’t like her to slack off.

They weren’t concerned. Nothing bad could happen to an upper demon in Hell*. And even if it was the case, they wouldn’t _worry_. They didn’t care. Just wanted to know why their right hand demon wasn’t doing her job.

*Unless, of course, they angered Beelzebub themselves. Then _all_ _sorts_ of bad things happened.

Pinching their lips in displeasure, they knocked at the door. “It izz me.”

No one answered. The Lord of the Flies squinted their eyes at the door, which wisely decided it wasn’t locked anymore.

Beelzebub stepped in, and stopped short with a start, looking at their lieutenant, head resting on her arms over her desk, eyelids fluttering like a human stuck in a bad dream. The air reeked of dark magic. Whatever Dagon was experiencing at the moment, this was obviously nothing like a healthy little nap.

The Prince of Hell pinched the bridge of their nose. Yelling wouldn’t fit the image they’d carefully crafted since the Fall. They took a few minutes to inspect the office, trying to understand what had taken place.

Something had happened to Dagon, and judging by the strange empty vials on her desk and the orders she’d apparently given to be left alone, she’d done it on her own.

The Archdemon picked up one of the vials, and headed out, locking the door again.

“You!” they shot at the first person who crossed their path.

“My Lord?” Squealed the demon.

Beelzebub shot him a look so venomous it would have poisoned a whole country.

“Summon every potion specialist. I want them in the throne room in ten minutes.”

The demon hesitated, then opened his mouth. Beelzebub’s eyes flashed. “Not _that_ kind of summon, you idiot!”

With a low bow, their underling hurried away.

The Prince of Hell watched him disappear into darkness.

“I am surrounded by imbeciles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow will be almost only fluff and comfort and... FLUFFY FLUFF!!  
> Prepare for some hot cocoa and sushis, everyone, because an angel is going to be pampered like CRAZY.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes up. Beelzebub decides to show themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's not talk about the chapter count...  
> Tomorrow's will be a little fluffy conclusion.

Something warm was hitting his cheek lightly. With a groan, Aziraphale reached out clumsily, batting away the irritating hand, and opened his eyes with great difficulty.

“Easy now,” said Crowley, still tapping his cheek. He was wearing his sunglasses, but the angel could see how worried he was, even through the cool attitude he was trying to project.

Waking up lying on the bookshop’s floor to his best friend’s concerned face was starting to become a bad habit. 

Aziraphale decided the priority was to wipe that expression off his demon’s face. “Stop _slapping_ me,” he protested.

Crowley spluttered indignantly to hide his relief. Aziraphale was complaining, which meant everything was going to be just _fine_ . “Slapping? I’m--I’m _patting your cheek_!”

The angel sat up, doing his best to hide how difficult it felt, and schooled his features into one of his best pouts. “I am certain bringing me back to consciousness did not require you to manhandle me, Crowley.”

The demon gaped, let out a string of consonants, and finally exploded. Even in his exhausted state, Aziraphale couldn’t help but find the sight greatly entertaining.

“ _Manhandle_ \--y--you’re such a-- _Satan_ , Aziraphale, I knew Andersen was one of your friends, but you never told me you inspired _Princess and the bloody Pea_!”

“How very dare you!”

Next to them, someone cleared their throat. Angel and demon turned to the sound guiltily.

“Are you okay, uncle Z?”

Aziraphale blinked sluggishly. “Adam! My dear, whatever are you doing here?”

“What do you think he’s doing here, stupid? You were possessed by a demon! Still have no idea how that happened. What do you remember?”

“I…” Arguing with his friend was easy as breathing and didn’t require a lot of reflection, but this conversation would obviously require a little more focus.

Crowley frowned. “You all right, angel?”

“Tickety-boo, dear boy,” assured Aziraphale, patting his hand. “I just need a moment.”

Crowley helped him to his feet, and Adam offered his shoulder to lean on. Aziraphale was dutifully led to his favourite armchair, and sat with an inward sigh.

“It was Dagon. She gave me something to drink, and took control of my body. I never heard of a mind-bending poison before, but I imagine that is what she used. Did you exorcise her?”

Adam’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “We can do that? That’s wicked!”

“No you can’t,” scowled Crowley, rummaging through the kitchenette to put the kettle to boil. “It’s dangerous, and it never works exactly as intended. Plus, it works on angels too. Would have been conter-productive to use it on your uncle.”

“How did you get rid of her? Did she go back to Hell?” asked Aziraphale, touching the back of his head with a grimace. He could feel the faint trace of a healing miracle. Well, that explained the unconsciousness. 

Adam pointed to an ornate tin box on the coffee table. “I put her in here.”

The angel’s face crumbled. “This was my favourite blend of tea.”

“I’ll get you more, stop whining,” grumbled Crowley, shoving a steaming mug into his hands.

The three of them looked at the little box for a minute. Aziraphale drank his tea un one go.

“What shall we do with it?” wondered the angel as he looked around for a place to put down his empty mug. Crowley took it without a word.

“Why not fill the sink, bless the water, then toss it in?” he answered darkly.

“Crowley!”

“What? She deserves it. I’ve done it before.”

“It was legitime defense. This would be entirely different. And it would damage our relations with Hell. We had a hard time building some sort of a status quo, we cannot destroy it like that.”

Crowley slammed the mug down on the desk, and felt a pang of guilt at the angel’s jolt. “Our _relations_ with Hell were damaged the instant that freak attacked you!”

Adam shrugged casually. “He’s right, uncle Z. They broke the truce first.”

“I--” Aziraphale looked from his friend to his godson, and sighed heavily. “I do not think Hell knew that she was here. It just does not make sense. You told me Beelzebub’s word could be _trusted_ , dear.”

“It can,” said a strange voice from the doorway.

Crowley whirled around, stepping to stand in front of Aziraphale’s chair.

Beelzebub didn’t blink, answering his glare with a bored look before turning to the angel. “I am not here to fight,” they declared, “and I didn’t send Dagon. She acted entirely against my orderzz.”

“Bullshit!” Hissed Crowley. “Everyone knows she only takes orders from you. She even went to Heaven to help your sorry ass, so stop lying and tell us why you did this.”

“Oh, dear,” mumbled Aziraphale, staring at the Prince of Hell. “She did it for you, didn’t she?”

Beelzebub's impassive expression flickered briefly, and Crowley refrained from pinching himself. Was the Lord of the Flies _embarrassed_? No way. 

“I may have kept the termzzz and conditions of our agreement to myself,” grumbled the Prince of Hell. “I ordered everyone to leave you two alone, but it obviously wazzn’t enough for her. She used some kind of potion to enter your spirit and find out what happened in Eden.”

“How can you know that if she did all this behind your back?” Snapped Crowley.

“She asked me about it, and I refused to answer. Then she ordered someone to create a meanzz to possess an angel.”

The Archdemon snapped their fingers, and Dagon’s empty corporation appeared at their feet. “I found it in her office, and... questioned a few personzz.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips firmly. He had been introduced to Beelzebub’s line of _questioning_.

“It won’t happen again,” added the Archdemon. “I will take care of it.”

“What, you’re giving us your _word_ again?” scoffed Crowley.

Aziraphale touched his friend’s sleeve. “You know they are sincere, dearest. We cannot judge them for Dagon’s actions.”

“Dagon is their _underling_ , angel.”

“So were you. And I do not intend to blame them for the loss of my Akan crocodile goldweight.”

Crowley let out a painful moan. “That _again_? Come oooon! It was an accident! I offered you a new one!”

“It was a gift, Crowley. A _town_ offered it to me. A whole _town_.”

“It was _five hundred years ago_ , angel!”

Beelzebub sighed, thanking Satan that Crowley wasn’t their problem anymore. “Doezz it mean I can go back? I have work waiting.”

Crowley made a face. He had been acquainted with Dagon long enough to know that when it came to stubborness, she could have given Aziraphale a run for his money. On another hand, refusing to hand over Dagon meant angering the _leader of Hell*_. “How can you be sure she won’t try again?”

*Everybody Down There knew Satan had no interest in leadership whatsoever. He spent most of his time in the sixth circle with Lilith.

Beelzebub looked at him seriously. “I will make sure of it,” they said, and a shiver of dread coursed through Crowley’s spine. Whatever was about to happen, he was glad not to be in Dagon’s place. He looked down at Aziraphale, who nodded his assent.

“Take her and leave us the fuck alone.”

“No,” said Adam, still standing near the fire. “I don’t agree with this.”

He reached out and took the tin box in hand. “I told Dagon not to touch Aziraphale already. And she didn’t listen to me. Twice. Seems to me that she doesn’t deserve another chance.”

Beelzebub’s eyes flashed. “This izzn’t for you to decide.”

“Isn’t it?” Asked the Antichrist innocently, fingers tightening. The tin emitted a strange sound.

“Adam!” gasped the angel. “Put that box down this instant!”

Crowley squinted his eyes at his godson, panic rising fast. If Adam was about to lose control in the bookshop, Dagon wouldn’t be the greatest loss.

_Shit, the first editions Wildes are right next to him!_

“Stop!” yelled Beelzebub. “Please. Don’t destroy her. I’ll give you anything you want.”

Crowley gaped. Please? _Please_ ? From a demon? From _THIS_ demon?

Adam smiled. “I want you to write a contract. A real contract. With me.”

“Absolutely not!” Cried Aziraphale, who jumped to his feet and then faltered a little. Crowley grabbed his elbow discreetly, helping him to regain his footing, then glared at his godson.

“I know how it works,” stated the child, breezily ignoring his uncles. “We both have to offer something. I will offer you Dagon’s life. And you will offer yours.”

“My life?” Repeated Beelzebub, managing to appear paler than usual.

“Yes. If anyone in Hell tries to hurt my uncles again, you will have to come back here and get into the box.”

Crowley looked from the child to the Prince of Hell as a heavy silence settled into the room. No way they would agree to these conditions. They would never--

“I accept.”

“Crowley, do something,” hissed Aziraphale, grabbing his sleeve. “You can’t let our nephew sign a contract with a demon!”

“He’s the freaking Antichrist, Aziraphale, he’s not selling his soul, he already belongs to Hell. Not that I think they would want him there anytime soon,” he added under his breath.

The angel grimaced, but didn’t answer. He knew a contract between two demons was more of an oath than anything else, but he didn’t like the idea one bit.

With a snap and a flourish, Beelzebub materialised a piece of paper and a pen.

“I thought it would be something cooler,” said Adam with a frown. “Like a parchment, and a quill to write with our own blood.”

Beelzebub sighed. “Do you _want_ to write with your own blood?”

“No, he doesn’t,” cut Crowley, snatching the paper from his ex-boss’ hand to read it before turning to his former boss in silence.

“Satisfied?” asked the Archdemon with a sneer.

Crowley waited a few seconds, enjoying the moment. “Yup, seems legit. You can sign it, kid.”

Aziraphale looked away angrily while the tin box changed hands. Adam’s idea was clever, but such a weight shouldn’t be put on a twelve years old’s shoulders. They were supposed to _protect_ the child, not the other way around.

Once again, he felt like a failure.

“I will make some cocoa,” he mumbled before heading to the stairs. “See yourself out, Lord Beelzebub, and please, tell your spouse what happened in Eden. This whole adventure could have been avoided with a little more communication between the two of you.”

Crowley gaped at the stairs for a long time, missing Beelzebub’s blush and hurried departure.

“Spouse?” he finally repeated, looking around. “ _SPOUSE?_ ”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for everyone to face the consequences of their actions.  
> And for some comfort, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a short conclusion. I got carried away.  
> I saw a lot of readers worry about the contract, and I wanted to explain it a little more^^  
> I put part of it on this chapter, but it's way bigger^^  
> Don't worry, I intend to play with Beelzebub in the future, they are too entertaining to write :)

Crowley barged in the flat as Aziraphale poured milk in a pan.

“You knew about it?”

The angel frowned in confusion. “About what, dear?”

“SPOUSE!” yelled his friend, making several potted plants shiver anxiously.

“Oh. That. Yes, I did know. I am an angel, Crowley, you know I can sense love.”

“Since when can your angelic radar sense bloody _rings_?”

“Rings? Do not be ridiculous, dear. Of course, I cannot sense _rings_. But I know how a demonic marriage rune looks like, and I saw Beelzebub’s when they were… questioning me, in Hell. It was not very difficult to deduce the rest. Their feelings are difficult to ignore.”

Crowley mumbled under his breath.

“What was that, dear boy?”

“Said you could have told me.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I thought I had. Where is Adam?”

“Erasing the trapping circle downstairs. He _asked_ to!” added the demon as his friend frowned.

“Oh, all right then.”

Crowley sat down on a stool, got up after a minute, paced for a while, eyes shooting to his friend every few seconds. The angel was standing in front of the stove, watching the milk like a hawk, ramrod straight. This was not a good sight.

“Sssorry ‘bout your leg,” muttered the demon after a bit more pacing.

“There is no reason to apologize, dearest,” answered the angel in kind, not turning around. “I would have been very cross hadn’t you used it to your advantage.”

“I didn’t use a bloody advantage; I used a weakness!” snapped Crowley. He would have preferred a good bout of yelling to this awful _understanding_.

“And you had to, it was the wisest course of action. Hand me the mugs, my dear.”

Aziraphale reached out with an affectionate smile. That was the last straw for Crowley to lose his temper.

“What is WRONG with you, Aziraphale?”

The angel took a step back in surprise, and a grimace of pain crossed his face before disappearing. “I do not understand, what are y--”

“This! That’s what I’m talking about! You’re hurt! Why are you so bloody nice when you’re obviously suffering? You’re supposed to be angry!”

“I assure you I feel perfectly fi--”

“Don’t lie to me! You’re a freaking handful every time you’re hurt, and for once I deserve your angelic bitchiness. So why aren’t you bitching?”

Aziraphale sighed, snapped his fingers to materialize three mugs on the counter, and started to pour hot cocoa. “Can we talk about me not being annoying enough later? I feel really tired, and I think a nap would be refreshing.”

The demon’s eyes widened. “You want to _sleep_? Angel, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I--Listen, I did not want to alarm you more than you already are. I had to alter my memories a tad, and I want to turn them back to normal. That is all.”

“You altered your memories?”

“Some of them. I did not want Dagon to find them.”

“Oh.” It made sense. “How long will it take?”

Aziraphale looked away, then back. Crowley braced himself for some bad news.

“A few hours?” offered the angel.

“A few _hours_?” gasped Crowley. “How many memories did you alter?”

“Maybe a thousand? Certainly, no more. I lost count, but I know I can find each one of them if I follow the same path,” promised the angel in a hurry, fingers twitching on the counter.

Crowley narrowed his eyes, taking in every little non-verbal clue he could gather. The fingers were the more obvious. Aziraphale would usually fidget with his cufflinks or his waistcoat’s buttons. But he needed to lean onto the counter. The demon grimaced inwardly.

“You think I’ll yell at you for altering your own mind, right? Okay, I’ll let it slide, but only because you’re stupid when you’re hurt. I won’t get _mad_ at you for fighting dirty. I bet Dagon was kinda pissed off, right? wish I could have seen that.”

“I changed quite a lot of personal memories,” murmured the angel warily.

Crowley shrugged. “And I’m sure you’ll be able to turn them all back.”

“Of course I will!”

“Then why are you acting like I’m going to yell at you? You did the right thing, acting like the complete bastard you can be. I never expected less from you.”

Aziraphale pouted. “Well, _you_ believed I was about to yell at you for the leg thing.”

“Guess we’re both stupid, then. How is it? I know it must hurt like Hea—like Hel—like something that hurts a lot.”

“I will survive.”

Crowley raised an unimpressed eyebrow. The angel sighed, acknowledging his defeat. “It hurts quite a lot, but it is manageable, I assure you. Now help me get the cocoa downstairs, then I will meditate for a while and put my mind into order.”

“And there you are, stupid again. You’ll get in bed and meditate there, Adam can take the stairs for his bloody cocoa!”

“The _bed_? Crowley, I do not need to sleep, only to organise my thoughts. I can perfectly do this on an armchair!”

“You know you get sleepy when you need to heal!”

“I don’t need to _heal_ , I am perfectly fine!”

“Tell that to your leg!”

“Will you stop with that _bloody_ leg, Crowley?”

The demon smiled. “That’s better. Come on, keep yelling, angel, let it all out.”

Aziraphale heaved a sigh and shook his head, unable to repress a huge wave of fondness. “You are _ridiculous_.”

The demon’s grin widened. “Will you let me help you walk to the armchair, now?”

“Only if you stop badgering me about the bed.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“And we will need to talk about that contract, Crowley. Beelzebub is the closest thing we have to an ally--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I’ve read it, all right? You trust me? It’s a demon-to-demon oath, there’s no way to cheat with these. Believe me when I say that Beelzebub isn’t going to stab us in the back.”

“How can you say so?”

“They didn’t even _read_ it, angel. When you summon that sort of contract, there’s no way to hide, it’s each party’s will that fills it, not a conscious thought. You know how wills can be tricky. Beelzebub signed without even looking at Adam’s demands. Means they really want us to _trust_ them. Guess they can’t afford more enemies.”

Aziraphale sat on his chair, so stunned he forgot about his leg for a few seconds. “Oh, dear. You _did_ read Adam’s formulation, did you? Not only Beelzebub’s?”

The demon chuckled, handing him one of a mug. With a demonic snap of fingers, marshmallows appeared in the steaming chocolate. “Nothing to worry about, angel. We raised him well.”

“We did not raise him, Crowley,” reminded Aziraphale.

“That’s what I said.”

The angel laughed a little at that, then drank hot cocoa with his friend and Godson, a little dog curled up at his feet. Later, he closed his eyes to repair his mind while his actions were still fresh in his mind, and Crowley opened the window so he could hear Bentley’s music.

The car played “Miracle” in a loop for seven hours, and no one complained about it*. Aziraphale always loved that song.

*It takes _a lot_ to push the standard denizen of Soho to their limits, but Aziraphale’s neighbours were even a cut above the rest.

Even later, once his last memory was finally restored, the angel decided to keep his eyes closed for a moment. There would be discussions to be had (especially with Adam), but one more minute wouldn’t hurt. 

A firm hand shook his shoulder. It was a very comforting hand. Aziraphale tried to pat it.

“Hey, hey, angel, this is no time to sleep. You need to finish with your memories first!”

“I’m done. And ‘m not sleeping. Resting my eyes.”

“Let’s rest your eyes in bed, Aziraphale.”

“Don’t need to sleep, you over-worrying noodle.”

“Course you do, you just used a contraction. But kudos on “over-worrying,” didn’t think you could come with that one in this state. Up you go.”

“I’m good here, leave me alooone.”

The hand disappeared, and a deafening silence fell. Aziraphale’s brain started to trigger all sorts of alarms.

“Your leg will hurt even more if you sleep like that, angel. I just want to help.”

Crowley’s voice was wavering a little. This couldn’t be borne. Aziraphale tried to get up and open his eyes. “You know, I think you’re right, I should lie down for a while.”

“Good,” said the demon sharply, pushing and pulling until the angel got to his feet. “Come on, help me here, angel, I won’t carry you!”

There was no more trace of waver here. Aziraphale gasped in indignation. “You _liar_ ! You used _guilt_ to manipulate me!” 

He really wanted to glare, but his eyelids were too heavy.

A chuckle answered him. “Hey, don’t blame me, your side came up with that one.”

“You’re the worst.’

“I know. What were the chances, hey? Of all the demons, you had to befriend the _worst_.”

“That’s because…” mumbled the angel, barely registering the miracle getting rid of his shoes and the blanket falling over his chest, “I have _standards_.”

* * *

Beelzebub reread the contract in their hands. Behind them, Dagon squinted her eyes at the piece of paper.

_I, Adam Young, agree to release Dagon, Lord of the Files, in exchange for Lord Beelzebub’s promise to get into uncle Aziraphale’s tea box for a timeout on my bedroom’s shelf if one of the following conditions were to be met:_

_-Allowing one of their underlings to hurt or bother Crowley or Aziraphale if they can stop them._

_-Allowing someone else to hurt or bother Crowley or Aziraphale if they hear about it and decide not to help._

_-Trying to make me start Armageddon again._

“This izzz… a very honest contract,” reflected the Prince of Hell.

“Honest? It’s a miracle, you mean. And those aren’t supposed to happen here,” snapped Dagon. 

Beelzebub’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t talk right now, if I were you. Do you realise how much trouble you’re in?”

“ _Trouble_ ?” yelled Dagon. “ _I_ am the one in trouble? You signed a contract with the Antichrist! How stupid was _that_?”

Beelzebub frowned. They weren’t used to Dagon losing her temper. This was unprecedented. They didn’t like it one bit. “He wazz threatening to destroy you.”

“You’re the leader of Hell! You can’t risk your life like that!”

The Archemon shrugged. “But he wazzz threatening to destroy you.”

“I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me!”

“And I don’t want you to put your life in danger stupidly,” explained Beelzebub with great calm.

“I was trying to protect you!” erupted Dagon.

The Prince of Hell looked down at the contract. “I don’t think that worked very well.”

Dagon closed her eyes. “Yes. You’re right. Aren’t you mad at me?”

“Why would I be?”

“Because I betrayed you!”

“You just said you were trying to protect me.”

“I was!”

“You’re not making any sense.”

For a minute, Dagon turned an interesting shade of red. Then she deflated and glared at her boss. “I’m going to my office. Don’t call me.”

“Are you angry with me?” asked Beelzebub at her retreating back.

“Yes!”

“Are you coming home tonight?”

“Yes!”

The door slammed. Beelzebub folded the contract, snapped their fingers to send it to a safe and secret place, and looked at the stack of paper on their desk that hadn’t diminished in their absence. In fact, it was considerably higher.

With a sigh, they reached out to grab the first report on the pile.

Suddenly, time-out in a tin box seemed very appealing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this conclusion isn't disapointing. I wanted to spend more time on it, but am on a deadline, ha ha!  
> Knowing me, it would have taken four more days and I wouldn't have changed a lot.  
> Or I would have erased and rewritten it entirely two times.
> 
> Tomorrow will be a short ficlet!  
> The prompt is "Burried alive", which is... a little problematic, since I already wrote a story with that one in Whumptober.  
> But I think I'll aim for something cute and funny. Probably with the Them.


End file.
